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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28819377">Ghost</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Inception (2010), Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Inception Fusion, Canon-Typical Violence, Dreamsharing, Gen, M/M, No Beta, Past Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:41:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,422</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28819377</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Years ago, Tony Stark hired Steve Rogers to perform an extraction on Baron Zemo, who claimed to have knowledge on the mysterious death of Tony Stark’s parents. The job ended with James Barnes, Rogers' architect, jumping off the side of a six story building. Steve claimed he never found Zemo's secret.</p>
<p>Years later, Tony is beginning to suspect that Steve didn’t tell the truth. He hires a team--Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff; Bruce Banner, Peter Parker, and Clint Barton--to extract from Steve Rogers. Between the six of them, not even Steve Rogers should stand a chance.</p>
<p>What they didn’t anticipate was that Steve Rogers had a ghost. A vengeful one.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Riley/Sam Wilson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Ghost</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You know why you’re here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There was only one reason why a man like Tony Stark would go looking for a man like Sam Wilson.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I have my guesses,” Sam said, “and none of them are legal.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tony Stark grinned. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was midday in Manhattan. The cafe terrace around them was empty, cleared upon Stark’s entrance. Dressed in a blue suit and sunglasses, Stark looked every bit as expensive as he did on TV. Sam himself had arrived in jeans and a polo. The two men sat opposite each other around a small, wooden table, on which two glasses of iced tea stood. Both glasses had yet to be touched. It appeared Stark had been in the game long enough to know the dangers of drinking with strangers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So I assume we’re on the same page, then?” Stark asked. Sam looked down at his hands. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t do that stuff anymore,” Sam said. “I don’t know how you found me, but I’ve moved on. I coach little league now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Behind his sunglasses, Stark rolled his eyes. His fingers began drumming against the tabletop. “You know what’s funny,” Stark said. “Natasha Romanoff said those exact same words to me before I hired her.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam forced his face to remain impassive at the name drop. Sam had never worked with Natasha Romanoff before, but he knew that she was the best forger in the western hemisphere. Stark’s smile turned cat-like.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well. Not the little league part, of course, but you get what I mean.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam interlaced his fingers. It had been a while since he had to negotiate a job. The whole tête-à-tête was devastatingly familiar. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If you’ve got Romanoff on your team, what are you talking to me for?” Sam asked. “Surely you can find someone better.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah, well, here’s the thing,” Tony said, leaning forward a little in his chair. “We’re not here because I picked you at random. I’ve done my research. I know you were behind Stiwell’s extraction in twenty-ten.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam remembered that job. He and Riley had celebrated with lobster after. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I also know that it’s been three years since you last went under, and coaching little league only pays so much.” Stark finally reached across the table to take a sip of his iced tea. He remained eye contact with Sam the entire time. “Of course, money isn’t the real issue, is it? I know guys like you. I’ve got four of them in my pocket already. Going under is more than just a job. You </span>
  <em>
    <span>like </span>
  </em>
  <span>it.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam tightened his jaw. The way Stark spoke made Sam sound just like another somnacin junkie trying to stay away. Then again, Stark was probably goading him. This was clearly not Stark’s first time negotiating a job. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You never answered my question,” Sam said, reaching for his own iced tea. “Why me? I’m good, but not Romanoff good. A guy like you? You should be hiring the best of the best.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>For the first time all meeting, Tony Stark grimaced. By the time Sam next blinked, the grimace was gone, replaced by a carefully neutral expression. Sam felt thrill run through his veins. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah. Yes. That’s the thing. We need an unknown. For the extractor, at least. Let’s just say… the guy I’m after has dipped his toe in the field once or twice, and might get suspicious if he sees any familiar faces.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam suddenly had a bad feeling about this. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What are you saying? Who’s our target?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Stark offered a wry smile. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ever heard of Steve Rogers?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Any extractor worth half their salt knew of Steve Rogers. The man was practically legend. Not only was he a pioneer in the field of shared dreaming, but he was also an innovator—up until 2014, at least, when he disappeared off the face of the earth. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>According to the rumors, Rogers was either dead in a ditch somewhere or happily retired and living out the suburban dream with a wife and two kids. Sam considered both endings befitting for a man as mythical as Steve Rogers. Then there was the third rumor—that Rogers had lost it after his architect, James Barnes, offed himself.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam deeply hoped that the third rumor was not true. The third rumor was just messy and painful and devastatingly real. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After Stark’s reveal, Sam had been too shocked to turn down the business card Stark slid his way. He had been staring at the business card ever since. There was a phone number on the front, printed in neat, block letters beneath Tony Stark’s name. Then there was the phone number on the back, scribbled in messy, blue ink. Stark meant business. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Had Riley been around, Sam would’ve gone to him straight away. He would’ve probably bursted through their apartment door screaming to high heaven that Tony Stark wanted their business. But Riley was gone, and so Sam wandered quietly back to his apartment and spent the remainder of his day staring at the business card. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>On one hand, this was the challenge of a life time: extracting from an extractor. The competitive part of Sam wanted to take on the job just to prove to Stark that he had made the right hire. On the other hand, Sam had finally found a rhythm to his new life—coaching little league, babysitting his nieces, discovering new recipes—it was the life Riley wanted for him, and yet here Sam was, ready to throw it all away just to get a rush of adrenaline in his veins. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In the end, Sam asked himself one simple question: What would Riley do? Not What does Riley want for me, but What would Riley do?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>At ten PM that night, Sam made the call.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Work began the next day. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So. You’re the extractor crazy enough to extract from the extractor of all extractors,” Clint said as soon as Tony introduced them. The man was lounged on a pool recliner in the center of the warehouse, a box of pizza in his lap.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Play nice, Barton,” Natasha chided from her vanity, her voice low and throaty. “The new guy hasn’t acquired a taste for your humor.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint made a face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I am playing nice, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Romanoff.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Here—” Clint offered out his box of pizza. “Want some?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam glanced at the pizza—pepperoni and pineapple.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, no thank you,” Sam replied. Clint shrugged. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was fairly easy to discern that all of Sam’s new teammates had some history with each other. Clint Barton and Natasha Romanoff bantered back and forth like siblings while Bruce Banner shook his head at Tony Stark like a tired older brother. The only one that seemed slightly out of the loop was Peter Parker, a clean cut looking high schooler who Tony claimed as a genius. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mr. Wilson,” Peter said upon meeting him, shaking his hand vigorously. “It’s an honor to work with you, sir.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Behind them, Sam could swear a look of fondness passed over Tony’s face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As soon as everyone was gathered at the center pool chairs, Tony rolled out a white board and uncapped a marker with his teeth. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You really got to stop doing that, Tony,” Bruce said, shaking his head. “The amount of germs on that thing—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“O-</span>
  <em>
    <span>kay</span>
  </em>
  <span>, lets get a move on with this, shall we? I bet you’re all dying to know why I want to extract from Rogers.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The sudden silence affirmed Tony’s statement. Tony gave a pleased nod and scrawled a name out on the white board. He tapped the name with the plastic end of the marker. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Baron Zemo,” Tony read. “Who remembers Baron Zemo?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam remembered Baron Zemo. The guy made national news a few years ago after claiming to the media that he knew the real cause behind Howard and Maria Stark’s untimely death. Sam had largely dismissed Zemo when the news came out, figuring he was just another conspiracy theorist looking for his claim to fame. The serious look on Tony’s face spoke otherwise, and a queasy feeling suddenly overtook Sam’s stomach. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not this again, Tony,” Bruce said, sounding tired. “You sent Steve on the job and the man did his best. Clearly Zemo was lying.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Or was he?” Tony said, a manic look suddenly taking over his face. “You see, something about that job still doesn’t sit right with me, and I’ve learned when to trust my gut feeling. You know as well as I do that that car crash was no accident. Now the question is—” Tony scrawled a new name on the board “—was Zemo lying, or was Rogers?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam stared at the two names on the board:</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>BARON ZEMO</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>STEVE ROGERS</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mr. Stark, sir,” Peter said timidly. “I’m confused.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, you gonna catch the rest of us up or what?” Clint said dryly. Tony gave a long suffering sigh. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright. I’m only going to run through this once, so listen.” Tony sketched out a rough timeline. “In 2010, my parents were killed in a ‘car accident.’ It was a bad few days, don’t want to talk about it—all you guys need to know is that it was no accident.” Tony paused. “No security tapes around the area caught anything, and there were signs of struggle in the car.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A heavy silence filled the room. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Now, skip ahead a few years to 2014. A guy named Baron Zemo—” Tony tapped the name again “—comes out of nowhere and claims to know how my parents really died. Naturally, I investigate. Turns out the guy was an ex-journalist who got fired for sticking his head where it didn’t belong. Now I’m really curious. So, I hire Steve Rogers, the best of the best, to perform an extraction on Zemo. Six months later, Rogers comes back saying that his architect had died and that he found nothing from the extraction.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tony gazed at all of them pointedly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Now, who sounds like the bigger liar? Zemo, a journalist with a history of digging too deep, or Rogers, who had never failed an extraction up until that point?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>There was a slight awkwardness in the air for reasons Sam couldn’t discern. Everyone was looking down at their shoes save for Peter Parker, who still looked confused. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I don’t understand,” Peter said. “Why can’t we just go after Zemo again? Surely he’s an easier target than Rogers?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tony shook his head. “Can’t find the guy,” he explained. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You know where Rogers is?” Sam asked in surprise. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I know where he </span>
  <em>
    <span>will</span>
  </em>
  <span> be,” Tony said. He scribbled one final date onto the timeline: August 16. “Every year on this day, Rogers magically appears in Brooklyn and puts some flowers on Barnes’s grave. He has never failed to show up.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha frowned at the dates.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hold on,” she said. “That’s in three months. You’re only giving us three months?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tony shrugged. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Better get working.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You know,” Natasha said, looking at Sam through her vanity mirror, “Stark and Rogers used to be friends.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam raised an eyebrow. Since his workspace was closest to Natasha’s, Sam found himself spending most of his time with the resident forger. Occasionally Clint popped up. While Bruce had his lab bench next to the windows, and Peter his teenage looking hangout in the corner, Clint, their point man, seemed to divide his time between lounging on the recliners next to the P.A.S.I.V and bothering whoever looked busiest. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ah. Spilling the deets while Tony is gone, huh?” Clint said, wheeling up in a worn looking swivel chair. Natasha made a face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Please don’t use that word ever again.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint ignored her. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I wouldn’t exactly call them friends,” Bruce said from behind his shelf of buffer solutions. Apparently the man was listening. “They were colleagues at best, and even then, they were butting heads most of the time.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint swiveled around. “Hey, they had their moments. Remember when we all went out and got shawarma?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha, who had been practicing smiles in front of the vanity, suddenly dropped her expression into a deadpan. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, and remember how Steve got sick afterwards?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, don’t blame the shawarma. He was probably just motion sick from Tony’ piss poor driving.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hold on,” Sam interrupted. “You all have worked with Rogers?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha and Clint shared a glance. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, not that guy,” Clint said, gesturing over at Peter, who was nestled on a purple bean bag, headphones plugged in as he worked on the level one blueprints. “Kid was probably in middle school the last time we all worked together.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So what happened?” Sam asked, curiosity getting the better of him. As a fellow extractor, Sam never got to work with Steve Rogers, since each team only needed one extractor. The man frankly felt more myth to him than flesh. It was a bit disorienting to know his new down-to-earth teammates had been colleagues with the man. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Hm. Barnes died,” Natasha said simply. She tried out a new smile in the mirror, one that looked kind and soft and so utterly not Natasha. She swiped a red tube of lipstick off her vanity, applying a thick coat to her lips. “I mean, all of us worked together whenever it was convenient, but Rogers and Barnes were a packaged duo. You couldn’t get one without the other.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So were you guys on the job with Zemo?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha shook her head. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No, Clint and I were working overseas, and Banner over there was holed up on some meditation retreat. Rogers ended up recruiting his old army buddies.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You mean—the Howling Commandos?” Sam asked, feeling a little star struck. Natasha nodded. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You bet. They even got Peggy Carter on as point man.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam’s eyes drifted to the tube of lipstick.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that—are you—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha folded her lips back into that kind, soft smile. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Indeed I am,” Natasha replied, her voice crisp with a british accent. Clint snorted. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Quit showing off.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha tossed a hairbrush at him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So if you weren’t on the job with Zemo,” Sam said, “when was the last time you all worked together?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha frowned. “That would be… 2010? 2011? Right, Barton?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint shrugged. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m pretty sure it was the one where Nick Fury hired us to extract from Alexander Pierce.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam shook his head. “You just dropped some big names there. Damn. Alexander Pierce? The guy who got outed as a mole for HYDRA? There’s no way that man isn’t militarized.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha met his eyes grimly in the mirror.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’re damn right. And if you think Pierce was a challenge, then you better be prepared for Rogers,” Natasha warned. “Pierce had training, but Rogers has been working the field for over a decade.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit,” Sam cursed, realizing his predicament. “Rogers is going to be militarized to high heaven.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The bare bones of the plan slowly coalesced in the first few weeks. Bruce calculated dosages while Natasha perfected the Howling Commandos. Peter had completed the first dream level and was working on the second. Sam found himself working closely with Clint as he planned out the first dream level. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If we’re dealing with a guy like Rogers, we’re going to need at least three dream levels,” Clint stated, drawing three boxes on the whiteboard. “If we start prodding at him on the first level, or even the second level, he’s going to suspect something is up. On the third level, though, even someone like Rogers is going to start letting their guard down.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And if he’s still too aware on the third level…” Sam said to himself. A shadowy look crossed Clint’s face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“If the third level fails, there’s still limbo.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them, Clint was staring at him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve been to limbo, I presume?” Clint asked. Sam nodded. “And I’m guessing you almost lost yourself?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam shook his head. “No, not me. My partner.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint asked no more questions after that. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So our best bet is to gain his trust slowly and slowly on each level so that, by the third level, all Natasha has to do is dress up as one of his buddies and ask him to lead the way.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam studied the board, now crowded with Clint’s spidery handwriting. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“And what if he recognizes you guys?” Sam asked. “Won’t he get suspicious?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint smiled. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s where you come in, buddy. You, Natasha, and Peter. Natasha will forge, naturally, and Steve’s never seen you and Peter before, so you two will be the main ones corralling him. The rest of us—well, Bruce is gonna be our dreamer on level one, and Tony and I will stay out of the way and work behind the scenes. Even if he does catch us, well—” Clint shrugged “—let’s just hope he dreams of us enough normally that our presence won’t be suspicious.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>An official plan was soon laid out, printed in Sam’s neat hand writing on the largest whiteboard he could find:</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>LEVEL 1—NEW YORK CITY.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>DREAMER: BRUCE B.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-FIND S.R. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-ENTER N.R. AS PEGGY CARTER</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-EST. INTRODUCTIONS W/ S.W. &amp; P.P</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-CONVINCE S.R. TO GO ON TRAIN; SEDATE</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>LEVEL 2—ART MUSEUM</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>DREAMER: CLINT B. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-FIND S.R.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-REINTRODUCE TO S.W. &amp; P.P</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-MENTION ZEMO</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-TAKE TO HOTEL; SEDATE</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>LEVEL 3—APARTMENT COMPLEX (NYC)</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>DREAMER: PETER P. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-FIND S.R.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-REINTRODUCE TO S.W. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-DISTRACT S.R.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-FIND VAULT</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>-COLLAPSE DREAM</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>When the plan was finished, Tony arrived, sunglasses perched on his forehead. He surveyed the plan, the rest of them watching expectantly from their seats in the circle of pool chairs. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So you’re going to drag Rogers through three dream levels,” Tony said skeptically. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s right,” Sam responded. Tony crossed his arms. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“How are you going to do that?” Tony asked. “You can’t strong-arm a guy like Rogers into sedation. The guy was in the army, for god's sake.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We are’t going to strong-arm him,” Sam said. “We’re going to gain his trust.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tony narrowed his eyes. “This is Rogers we’re talking about,” Tony said. “The man practically invented extraction. He’s going to be suspicious if the breeze even blows the wrong way.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Not after three dream levels,” Sam said, shaking his head. “With Natasha impersonating as his friends, and Peter and I familiarizing ourselves to him on every dream level, he’s going to be susceptible by level three. Peter even designed each level to be a familiar for Rogers, which will lower his guard.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Peter beamed happily. Tony raised an eyebrow.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I get using New York City, but what’s with the museum?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Ms. Romanoff told me that our target liked drawing, and used to go on trips to MoMA,” Peter explained</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tony glanced at Natasha, who merely shrugged. His gaze shifted back to Peter, then Sam. Sam cleared his throat. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“We’re doing three levels of dreaming, Tony. Even the greatest extractors are vulnerable when they’re dreaming deeply enough.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam’s thoughts wandered to limbo, and Clint glanced at him knowingly. Tony gave Sam one last look before clapping his hands together. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Looks like I hired the right guy after all.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Their first shared dream took place a week later. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint stayed topside while the rest of them ventured through Bruce’s dream. Peter’s Brooklyn unfolded around them, looking less shiny than modern day Brooklyn.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“No way,” Tony said, wandering down the street with his chin canted upward. He spun around. “Is this vintage Brooklyn?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Peter rubbed the back of head bashfully, causing a cow lick to spring upward. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I did some research at the library, looked over some old newspaper clippings. I wanted Brooklyn to look more like how it did in the nineties, when he was growing up.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tony shook his head. “This kid. An utter genius.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Peter preened happily. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Bruce led the way, Peter trailing closely behind, both of them checking the finer details to make sure the layout was exactly as they had wanted it. Sam found himself falling towards the back of the pack, Natasha at his side. This was Sam’s first time going under in three years, yet it felt like it had just been yesterday that he ran his last job with Riley. Every few seconds, Sam touched his totem, which was tucked in the pocket of his jacket. The totem was an old wrist watch—Riley’s. Riley had picked out out after learning that one never came across clocks in dreams. Sam loved Riley’s cleverness. It was the only belonging of Riley’s that Sam kept. He sent the rest back to Riley’s family. When Riley owned the watch, he kept it running, once sending it into the shop to get it fine tuned. After Riley died, Sam stopped the watch. It was permanently set to 6:13 PM. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As long as Sam could read the watch, it was his dream. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s in your jacket?” a deep voice asked. Sam whipped around to find a tall, broad man with a handle bar mustache. For a moment, he assumed it was a projection. Then the man’s lips twitched into a familiar, sly smile. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Natasha?” Sam asked, bewildered. In the blink of an eye, Natasha transformed back to herself. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What do you think? Timothy Dugan,” Natasha explained. Her hair suddenly curled, turning brown. Her jawline grew sharp. Lips turned red. Intense, brown eyes stared at Sam. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Peggy Carter,” Sam said. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Looks like you did your research,” Natasha said, her voice accented. A look of concentration briefly flickered across her face, and suddenly, she was a tall, brunette man, the man’s face gentle and kind. Natasha looked at Sam expectantly.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Nah, sorry,” Sam said. “I’ve got no clue.” Natasha transformed back into herself. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“James Barnes,” she explained. Her forehead wrinkled. “I still can’t quite get him right.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha looked troubled. An awkward pause passed between them. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You knew the guy, though, right?” Sam asked. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah, but knowing someone makes forging them a whole lot harder,” Natasha said. “Counterintuitive, right? Once you’ve met someone, you realize… you realize how faceted they are. They’re not just one personality. Not just one emotion. Once you know someone, the amount of things you can discover about them are endless.” Natasha’s frown deepened. “If I can’t get Barnes right by showtime, then I can’t use him.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Why not?” Sam asked. “People in dreams are always a little off.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Natasha looked up at him, her expression intense. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, but there are always exceptions,” she said. “We all have our exceptions. For Steve Rogers… he knows Barnes better than back of his hand.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam considered Natasha’s words. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Does that mean you have an exception?” he asked. Natasha looked at him and smiled without answering. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>He saw Riley’s shade just once. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was a brief flicker at Peter’s art museum, the moment not long enough for Sam to get a full glance, but long enough for Sam to </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span>. To know. He told no one what happened. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The museum was crowded. The layout vaguely resembling MoMA, but the art inside also contained pieces a little older. The lighting drew Sam’s eyes to the artwork. He found himself gazing at marble statues and ancient, oil paintings. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Maybe a little less crowded next time, guys,” Tony said, wading his way through the crowd. Just like that, the crowd thinned, with several of the patrons immediately wandering out to the next exhibit, only to disappear into thin air. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Much better,” Tony stated. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>With the room now filled with only three projections, Sam was finally able to get a good look at the paintings. He was surprised by the detail of them, though the brushstrokes were not nearly as defined as they were in reality, and the plaques were missing information. Absentmindedly, Sam touched the watch in his pocket. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>In one of the rooms deeper in the museum, Sam’s eyes caught on a painting of a the sky just after sunset, blues and pinks and raw reds burning brilliantly over the dim lighted woods. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You like that one, Mr. Wilson?” Peter asked, suddenly popping up behind him. “That’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>Twilight in the Wilderness, </span>
  </em>
  <span>by, uh—shoot, I don’t remember who it’s by.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Don’t sweat it, kid,” Sam said, stepping closer to the painting. As with the other paintings, the brush strokes weren’t super clear, and Sam had a hard time being able to focus in on the details. Before Sam could attempt to read the plaque, soft, orchestral music slowly streamed through the air. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh, I guess that’s the kick,” Peter said. The next thing Sam knew, he was awake. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“So? How was it?” Bruce asked, sprawled lazily in a pool recliner. Sam blinked, then blinked again. When he was just starting out, Sam had loved the moments after first waking. There was something about the sun spearing through the windows and painting stripes on his skin. Something about the weight of the air filling his lungs, the texture of the armrest beneath his finger pads. Sam loved the reminder of reality. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Mr. Banner, can’t we choose a different song?” Peter asked, wrinkling his nose at the vinyl Bruce had slipped over an old turntable. “I mean, I appreciate vintage and all, but what about something </span>
  <em>
    <span>epic?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam glanced at the cover of the vinyl:</span>
  <em>
    <span> It's Been a Long, Long Time.</span>
  </em>
  <span> Natasha caught his glance.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Barnes liked this song,” Natasha explained. “We figured it would be a good tribute.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>A quiet settled over them at the mention of James Barnes. Tony looked distinctly uncomfortable. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright. Well. Two more days until go time,” Tony said, clapping his hands. “Get some rest, finish any last plans. Get your totems. Then it’s go time.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It was sunny the morning of Tuesday, August 16. In two of Tony’s discrete sedans, the team headed down to Brooklyn, totems in their pockets and the P.A.S.I.V. locked in a case in the trunk. There was a buzzing tension in the air, not far from the quiet that used to settle over the locker room right before one of Sam’s high school track meets. It was the quiet of nerves, of excitement. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They parked opposite of the neighborhood cemetery where James Barnes was buried. For most of the morning, only dog walkers and joggers passed by. Lunch passed uneventfully. Peter began browsing his phone. Sam was beginning to get doubtful of Tony’s intel when he spotted a tall, broad blonde man making his way down the sidewalk, a bouquet of red and pink carnations in hand. Sam sat up. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Is that—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Target sighted,” Natasha reported into her radio. She looked paler than usual, as if the sight of Rogers startled her. “Sending in Parker.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh god, oh god, oh god, wish me luck,” Peter said before slipping out the car.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam watched with bated breath as Peter crossed the street. For the occasion, they had dressed the boy in nondescript jeans and a jacket, a grey cap covering his head. They watched as Peter shyly approached Rogers, who stopped and offered the boy a polite smile. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sir, sorry to bother you,” Peter said, his voice filtering in through Natasha’s radio, “but I’m kinda lost, and I don’t have my phone on me. Could I please, please borrow yours?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Peter’s voice shook slightly on the radio. Sam had a feeling it wasn’t all acting.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” Rogers said, his voice deeper than Sam anticipated. It was a commanding voice. That of a leader’s. “Just one sec. Could you hold this for me?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam watched as Rogers handed the carnations to Peter before digging out his phone, unlocking it without an ounce of suspicion on his face. Tony had told them that Rogers was a bleeding heart and would not bat an eye at a lost looking high schooler, especially one as doe eyed as Peter. While Steve pulled up the app, Peter shifted in place, looking like he had never held a bouquet of flowers in his life. Considering his youth, there was a chance that was true. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“There you go,” Rogers said, exchanging the phone for the bouquet. They watched as Peter dialed. In the next moment, Sam’s phone rang. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“What’s the number?” Tony’s voice asked over the radio. Sam relayed over the number before answering the call. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, hey Dad,” Peter said awkwardly. Natasha let out a snort while Clint folded over in silent laughter. “So, uh, I think I lost my phone back at that restaurant, and I kinda have no idea where I am right now.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Florence street,” Rogers voice said quietly in the background. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Florence street,” Peter repeated. “Is there any way you can pick me up?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam bit back a laugh. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sure, son.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint choked on his spit. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam hung up after that, and they watched as Peter handed back Rogers’ phone. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Thank you so much, sir,” Peter said, head bowing slightly. Rogers forehead wrinkled with a concerned frown. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course, of course. So your Dad is coming to pick you up?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, it’ll probably be just a minute.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Rogers glanced toward the cemetery, his hand shifting grip slightly on the bouquet. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I can wait with you until your Dad gets here, if you’d like. You don’t sound like you’re from around here.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Shit, shit, shit,” Clint said, swiping his hand across his throat in a slitting motion despite the fact that Peter couldn’t see. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Oh no, you don’t have to wait,” Peter said. “I’ve already bothered you enough. He should just be a minute.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Steve looked doubtful. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“This isn’t the greatest neighborhood, kid. I don’t mind waiting.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They watched as a brief look of panic flickered across Peter’s face. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I… okay,” Peter said, sounding defeated. He glanced to where they were hidden across the street. “Thank you, sir.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tony’s voice immediately crackled through the radio. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Wilson, you’re on.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Excuse me?” Sam said. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Rogers has met all of us before, except you. You gotta go play dad.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Clint’s mouth dropped open in delight. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes, yes, yes, yes—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Uh, in case if you haven’t noticed,” Sam interrupted, “I’m black, and Parker might as well be Snow White over there.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam could practically hear Tony roll his eyes. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“There’s adoption. Get with the times, Wilson.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam gave a long suffering sigh. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>As requested, he slipped out the car and crossed the street, approaching Rogers from behind. The sound of Sam’s keys jingling as he jogged caused Rogers to turn around. Sam was slightly baffled to find that Rogers looked even larger in real life. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you Dad?” Rogers asked. Sam found himself slightly starstruck. Standing right in front of him was Steve Rogers, extractor extraordinaire. Riley would’ve been thrilled to meet him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Peter stared at Sam pointedly. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“I—uh, yes. I’m Dad.” Sam looked to Peter. “Now did I hear you right? You lost your phone </span>
  <em>
    <span>again?</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Peter laughed what Sam assumed he was supposed to be a bashful laugh, but which came out awkward. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry Dad.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Damn right,” Sam said, before turning to Rogers. “Hey man, I appreciate you helping out.”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“It was no problem,” Rogers said, offering a small smile. Up close Rogers looked more… tired than Sam anticipated. His eyes drifted down to the flowers. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, have a good one,” Sam said, before placing a hand on Peter’s shoulder and guiding him back to the cars.  </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You too,” Rogers said, offering a small wave. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They were halfway across the street when Peter spoke again. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Jeez. That was a close one, huh, Mr. Wilson?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam shot Peter a look.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You’ve never acted in your life, have you, kid?”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Once on the other side of the street, Sam glanced back. Rogers was past the cemetery gates now, his head down, shoulders slightly hunched. His legs moved with the mechanicalness of deep muscle memory. Suddenly, Rogers looked small. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Sam looked away. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>*</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After some very illegal hacking on Tony’s part, the team found the Greyhound bus Rogers was taking home that night. All six of them quickly bought out the remaining seats in the back row. Once onboard, it didn’t take long for Rogers to slip on a pair of headphones and fall asleep. Then they sprung into action. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The driver had been bribed beforehand, along with the four other passengers, and their recent hire, Scott Lang, quickly rose out of his seat to set up the P.A.S.I.V.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Guys, you don’t know how excited I am to—”</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Tony hushed him. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>They worked quickly after that. They all resettled into seats behind Rogers, rolling up their sleeves in preparation for the somnacin. </span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“Sweet dreams,” Lang said, before slipping the catheter into Sam’s forearm. The last thing Sam saw before sleep took him was the back of Rogers’ head. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>comments and kudos always appreciated!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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